


red on white

by paperlesscrown



Series: intimacies: a sprousehart drabble collection [3]
Category: Riverdale (TV 2017) RPF
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Inspired by social media, Lili's POV, Sprousehart
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-01
Updated: 2018-03-01
Packaged: 2019-03-25 14:27:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13836690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paperlesscrown/pseuds/paperlesscrown
Summary: Crimson nails on a white shirt. A smudge of lipstick on a pillow. Roses in the snow.





	red on white

i.

My nails were painted a dark crimson.

We were walking back to your car when you nudged me playfully with your shoulder, and, ever the klutz, my foot slipped, and I grabbed a hold of you as you encircled my waist with your arm. 

If I had looked up into your eyes, would we have kissed that day? Would we have discovered sooner that there was a storm waiting to erupt in the space between us?

But my heart was beating too fast and I barely had the courage to meet your gaze. So instead I looked down where my fingers clutched at your white shirt - red on white, the material fisted in my hand. You laughed, and I felt both longing and relief as the moment slipped away from us.

“You nearly fell,” you said.

No, Cole.

I already had. 

...

ii.

Saturdays are for laundry. You’d stripped the bed of its sheets and left them on the floor of our room, with a Post-it on the door, marked by your strong, graceful handwriting.

_“Do I even need to tell you why?”_

I picked up a pillowcase and there it was - my lipstick smudged on the ivory cotton. 

I smiled as I loaded the washing machine.

I blush even at the smallest remnants of us.

...

iii.

As snow flecked your hair and you smiled at me mischievously from behind the camera, I thought of parallels. 

Of flowers.

The poppies in Antelope Valley that rustled underneath the hem of my dress. And now the roses in my hand, set against the stark white winter of Whistler. 

You call yourself an escapist. When I first began to love you, I knew this, and I was afraid that it would take you away from me too often. 

But that never happened. Instead, you turned around, reached your hand towards me, and pulled me into your adventures. 

I looked at the roses in my hand - just a handful of three or four dozen you had surprised me with that weekend - and I looked at you.

It’s funny. I’m an escapist now, too. 

I want to escape forever into you. 


End file.
